


Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang

by kuriadalmatia



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Plot Twist, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Rossi knew none of the Kids—and they were all kids to him—would take the shot. Hell, he doubted he could do it himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang

**Author's Note:**

> ARCHIVING: my AO3, FFN and LJ... anyone else? Please ask first.
> 
> Feedback always welcome.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head. The title is taken from William Shakespeare's Sonnet 73.
> 
> VERSION: March-April 2010.
> 
> TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Late fifth season, but no specific episode.
> 
> COMMENTS: Thanks to citymusings and shari_mg for help regarding Rossi's note-taking. Thanks to pabzi for the encouragement and for tackling a story featuring a character near and dear to her. Thanks to lady_of_scarlet for the beta.

_*****/***** _

_Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,  
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.  
In me thou seest the twilight of such day  
As after sunset fadeth in the west_

_**William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73** _

_*****/***** _

Given a preference for how he would die, David Rossi would always choose Line of Duty. Not that he would say that aloud; hell, no. That was one of quickest tickets for a psych eval and mandatory counseling. Suicidal, they would say, when actually Dave wasn't.

It wasn't about being heroic—taking a bullet to save a baby or being mortally stabbed to protect a victim or hell, even being blown up at the hands of a mad bomber to minimize loss—no matter what people would think if he actually told them. Which Dave wasn't going to. Ever. Even if there was a fair amount of fine bourbon involved.

No, dying in the Line of Duty certainly beat being stuck in some old age home with an oxygen cannula stuck in his nose and a hemorrhoid pillow under his ass. It beat being confined to a wheelchair with only stories of the Glory Days to keep him company.

And Dave's tales were certainly not the types that he could tell anyone, really. "You know, there's a certain stink that a bloated body makes after it's been in the water for a few days. It reminds me of Uncle Giuseppe's farts after the man had eaten two servings of Carm's spicy sausage with peppers and drank a half case of that cheap beer he drove to Jersey for."

Dying in the Line of Duty also meant that Dave's greatest fear wouldn't happen either: experiencing a psychotic break so profound that no one would remember all his good work. No. They would just remember him as the guy who lost all his marbles and ended everything via Suicide by Cop.

Just like the UnSub (the word bitter in Dave's mind) who was currently standing over him.

"Are you sure you're here just to talk?" the UnSub asked, his tone a funny pitch between mocking and concern.

Dave looked up, wincing from the throb at his temple where the butt of the gun had hit. All because he foolishly took his eyes off the UnSub as he entered the cabin, trying to take in his surroundings. Idiot. He stayed on his knees—penitent, subservient, deference to authority—making sure his movements were slow and deliberate. Rule Number Three when dealing with an unstable, paranoid, hyper-vigilant, extremely intelligent UnSub who was spiraling hard: No sudden moves. Ever.

"Yes. Just to talk," Dave replied. He dared a glance to the kiddie table in the middle of the room, to the six unconscious children bound to chairs around it.

_Please God, let them be alive. Please. I don't want this nightmare._

Those kidnapped kids were the only reason why Dave was in the UnSub's cabin to begin with.

_Please, God. Let them be alive. Please._

There was no realistic way to communicate to the Team waiting outside. The cabin's windows had been shuttered on the outside and inside with wood slats. The chimney's flue had been closed and the exhaust vents plugged with blankets. There was only one entrance to the cabin—the way Dave had come in—and the UnSub had insisted absolutely no supplies were carried inside.

It really sucked when the UnSub knew the goddamned playbook.

Dave watched as the Smith & Wesson M459 9mm pistol was slid into its holster on the man's hip. The S&W was Old School, even more so than a Sig Sauer or a Springfield. The piece used to be the standard service weapon for the FBI up until the mid-80's, but after the 1986 Miami shoot-out, almost every agent upgraded his or her weapon to something with a bit more power.

Regardless, the pistol was within easy reach. Then again, so was the trigger for the bomb strapped to the UnSub's chest. Talking really was the only way out of this with minimal loss.

_*****/***** _

" _Look, workampers are common place nowadays, especially retirees. They're offered free utilities for their RVs in return for keeping the grounds clean, helping folks with the hookups, and some even offer tours. That's what Aaron Spencer did last season here and came back for this season. When he asked for use of a cabin after a skunk did a number on his RV, management agreed. He's a birdwatcher, and this campground is popular with folks like that. Yeah, he's a little odd, but who isn't nowadays? We have never received any complaints about him."_

_*****/***** _

Rough fingers grabbed at Dave's ears, pushing at the cartilage, and then one digit was jabbed down each ear canal. He grunted in pain but did his best to remain passive; he knew the UnSub was checking for earpieces and radios.

Standard precaution.

Bat-shit crazy, yet sharp as a tack.

The worst kind of UnSub to deal with.

The UnSub stepped back and pulled out his pistol again. "Stand," he ordered and gestured with the weapon.

Dave complied, making sure the UnSub could see his hands. He was told to unbutton and untuck his shirt, to stand with his legs spread and arms out. He obeyed, making sure he appeared passive as the UnSub patted him down for weapons and wires—quick, efficient—and moved away again.

Then, the UnSub paused, as if unsure of what to do next. Maybe he was waiting for Dave to make the next move.

Fair enough.

 _Rule Number Two: Keep it civil. Keep it polite. Treat the UnSub with respect._ Dave kept his features neutral as he slowly, slowly, slowly extended his hand forward for a handshake. He had to start somewhere.

"They told you who I was, right?" he asked calmly. He met the UnSub's eyes, hoping for some flash of recognition—good or bad—from the man. The Team only had a description and a questionable sketch of the UnSub, unable to locate a photo before Dave had entered the cabin. It was rare for them to enter a situation like this with so little information, but the UnSub had insisted that he talk to someone "right now".

Six children. A bomb.

As if Hotch honestly had a choice about sending someone in.

Dave seriously doubted the Kids had gotten a good look at the UnSub when the man had opened the door to allow Dave inside. The UnSub had made sure he had stayed out of snipers' sights.

The scruffy, full beard was mostly gray. The longer hair was wild and dappled with silver. The wire-framed eyeglasses were too large for the man's face and seemed to magnify the wrinkles around his eyes. His appearance just odd enough for people to say, "He looks like one of those old mountain men from the movies" but not enough detail to give an accurate description.

The UnSub narrowed his eyes, as if taking in Dave's appearance and rifling through his own memories. He waved the pistol dismissively. "It doesn't matter."

Dave said quietly, "My name is—"

"You said you were here to talk," the UnSub interrupted harshly, training the weapon unflinchingly on Dave. "So talk."

"Okay." Dave lowered his hand. "You say your name is Aaron Spencer and that you had information."

_*****/***** _

" _Three hours ago, a school bus with three adults, nineteen children, and the driver, pulled into a rest area ten miles from here. They were on the way to summer camp. A man matching Aaron Spencer's description pulled a gun on one of the adults—Kennedy Matheson—and got on board. He confiscated all the cell phones from the hostages. He forced the driver, Bailey Tomlinson, to take the bus to a different campground, approximately sixteen miles away, saying that if Tomlinson didn't do as he was told that the bomb strapped to his chest would be detonated._

" _Once at the new site, Aaron Spencer handcuffed the driver to the steering wheel, duct-taped two of the adults together and disabled the CB radio. He then made Matheson and six of the children get off the bus and into his van at gunpoint, at which point he shot out the bus tires before driving away. He released Matheson once he reached the main road, but kept the children hostage. She was the one who made the call to the police."_

" _Check his background again. See if he has any involvement with youth organizations, any complaints lodged against him, or if he left abruptly."_

" _Personal tragedies, too, Baby Girl. Divorce. Widowed. Lost custody or deaths of children, grandchildren or younger family members."_

" _This is organized. Methodical. He was able to control a lot of people with minimal effort. He's been building up to this. He's a repeat offender."_

_*****/***** _

"They say that you're an avid birder, that you give the best tours here on the grounds."

"It doesn't matter," the UnSub snapped.

"Actually, it does."

"Establishing camaraderie," blurted softly, as if the UnSub couldn't contain the internal thought. The UnSub shook his head and gestured with his left hand, as if discounting the theory. He paced a little, weapon no longer trained on Dave. "No. Not that. Something else. Something else." Then, he stopped and aimed the pistol at Dave again. "Why are you here?"

"Like I said before, I'm here to talk."

"There's nothing to discuss."

"You said before that you had information," Dave explained, keeping his tone neutral and nonthreatening. "That you wanted to talk about what you had found."

Dave flicked his gaze over to the children. Wide strips of cloth tied around them and the chairs kept them upright, but their heads lolled forward. No bruising to their faces. Getting them from the school bus to the van had been facilitated by one of the adults, Dave knew, but how had the UnSub managed to keep them under control once the adult had left? Had he drugged them?

 _Please, dear God, let them be alive._ Followed by, _Focus. Focus. Focus._

Dave spotted the empty seat at the table and tilted his head slightly towards it. "May I sit down?"

The UnSub's eyes widened, clearly incredulous that Dave would dare make the request. His tone turned harsh, angry. "You're not allowed to sit with my team."

For a second, David Rossi believed he had misheard. That the UnSub had said "Nineteen" or "Dentyne" or "Sistine" or any other similar-sounding combinations.

Not "my team".

Definitely not "my team".

Dave coughed. Bile surged forward and pooled on his tongue. It took everything—every goddamn thing in him—to swallow it back. To blink. To focus.

_Don't look at the children. Don't look at them. Don't—_

The dark haired boy at the head of the table with a little red tie against the stark white of his shirt. The dark-haired girl to the boy's right, white blouse with a high buttoned neckline. The blonde girl to the boy's left, sparkling butterfly barrettes holding her hair in ponytail. The thin boy with thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Another blonde girl with pigtails and rainbow streamers in her hair. The dark skinned boy in a football jersey too big for him.

_Oh God. Oh God._

"Gideon," Dave whispered.

The blow from the S&W was swift, accurate, and sent Dave back to his knees.

"Do _not_ stare at my team," the man hissed.

_*****/***** _

" _Let's go over this again. We have an UnSub who kidnapped and murdered six middle-aged women, stabbing them to death and dumping their bodies at six different campgrounds within a fifty-mile radius. These women were all physicians, but none of them worked at the same hospital or medical practice. They didn't have the same specialty either."_

" _Our UnSub is preferential but he also could be a collector. Look at the victims' specialties: cardiologist, oncologist, gynecologist, orthopedist, dermatologist, and urologist."_

" _Right. Something else as well: no effort was made to hide the bodies, like the UnSub wanted them to be found."_

" _Which leads us to the man who discovered the second body: Aaron Spencer, who is currently holding six children hostage."_

" _It doesn't make sense. Victimology doesn't just change like this, especially one this established and specific—middle-aged, professional women—to… school kids. And escalating from kidnapping a single person to a busload of children? Releasing the woman but keeping the kids? Also, the UnSub stabbed his victims while Aaron Spencer has a gun and bomb."_

" _The Sheriff said that Spencer didn't start calling him until after the sixth body was discovered."_

" _He could be trying to insert himself into the case."_

" _But he would have done that after the second victim, the one that he had found."_

" _That still doesn't explain him taking those kids."_

" _Six children. Six victims."_

" _Two UnSubs."_

" _Garcia, are we any closer to finding out who this guy is? Talk to me, Baby Girl."_

_*****/***** _

_*****/***** _

Gideon… no, the UnSub.

_Think of him as the UnSub._

Not as the guy who, seventeen years ago, had matched Dave drink per drink because it had been the only way to wind down after that brutal thirty-six hour standoff that had left seven people dead _._ Not as the guy who, that night, had played the piano with accuracy that belied the effect of half a bottle of whiskey. Not as the guy who had harmonized while Dave had slurred through "These Foolish Things" because it had been the only song the two of them could agree upon.

Christ.

No. This was the UnSub who had created a new identity after leaving the BAU. An identity that was now unnerving as hell because Dave realized how much of it incorporated the BAU team. Two bachelor degrees: psychology from Prentiss' alma mater and biology from JJ's. Two years at Chicago's Field Museum followed by a stint at the California Academy of Science's Natural History Museum in San Francisco.

Then, there was the name that Gideon had selected: Aaron Spencer.

_Oh, God._

But typical Gideon, really. If there was one person in the BAU who had a penchant for self-flagellation, it definitely had been Gideon. Oh, he had always talked a good game about compartmentalizing and distancing himself, but why had he kept that damn "Book of the Saved"?

 _That's rich coming from a guy who carried a charm bracelet in his pocket for over 20 years_ , he chided himself.

But the flipside of keeping a journal of those saved was the reminder of those who hadn't been. Like those six agents in Boston, something which should have forced Gideon into retirement. No. No. Gideon just had to come back and fight for his own redemption.

_You can't have Good without Evil. Saints without Sinners. Heaven without Hell. Salvation without Damnation._

In the end, Gideon's Book of the Saved had become the Book of the Damned, his path to hell.

Dave knew.

He had read the case file.

Aaron still refused to talk about it.

_Breathe. Breathe. Focus. Focus._

Dave looked over at the wall behind the children. On the left side were two maps: one was of the campgrounds and the other one showed four states. The latter had two lopsided triangles crudely colored in, one purple and one orange. Gideon— _Compartmentalize. Distance yourself. Distance._ —was trying to develop a geographical profile.

It lacked the elegance and precision of Reid's, although the purple triangle was somewhat accurate. The orange… the orange probably represented the missing children.

It was methodical.

Logical.

In the middle part of the wall were pictures of six different birds, arranged like an evidence board. Photographs of each from front and side views were paired with watercolor sketches. The books that they had been cut from were against the baseboards of the wall. Each bird had its common name and its scientific name written on index cards above it: Northern Bobwhite, Swallow-tailed Kite, Common Raven, Eastern Towhee, Bachman's Sparrow, Ruby-throated hummingbird.

To the right, a large piece of white paper with dates scrawled across it.

_This? All this? The distorted brilliance of Jason Gideon._

"You're working the case," Dave said evenly as he slowly got to his feet. He nodded towards the maps, then to the other two areas as he said, "That's why you called. That's why you wanted to talk. You found something."

Gideon shook his head, his voice now full of bitter frustration. "It's not complete." He strode over to the wall and then began pacing. "It's not complete."

"Why don't you tell me about it?"

_***/***_

" _Gideon probably considered the campgrounds that he traveled to as his sanctuary."_

" _Like he viewed his cabin."_

" _Right. So when he discovered the victim…"_

" _His sanctuary was violated. Just like his cabin. Just like his apartment."_

***/***

Gideon had always been an excellent lecturer. While his style was completely different from Dave's, there had always been an element of storytelling involved. Yet Gideon never glossed over the facts, never glamorized the grotesque, and never glorified the UnSubs.

Even in the throes of madness, Gideon still possessed those qualities.

And David Rossi listened as Jason Gideon presented information on the Northern Bobwhite, Swallow-tailed Kite, Common Raven, Eastern Towhee, Bachman's Sparrow, and Ruby-throated hummingbird.

Precise. Concise. Thorough without being overwhelming. The case distilled into easily comprehendible pieces that even the skeptical listener could digest.

 _Treat it like a case,_ Dave told himself. He straightened a little, and then pulled out his worn leather notebook and pen. He flipped to a fresh page and scribbled a few notes.

Gideon pointed. He gestured. The cadence in his voice conveyed his passion, his empathy. It was one of the reasons he had been one of the top lecturers at the Academy, the one that students had flocked to. As an instructor, he had seemed thrilled to share his knowledge and he always seemed to have at least one or two trainees hanging out in his office when they hadn't been out in the field.

"What color are you using?" Gideon suddenly asked, attention completely focused on the pen in Dave's hand.

He blinked, momentarily surprised by the question but then replied with curiosity, "Blue."

"Ah." Gideon flashed that patronizing smile of approval, the one that students had been desperate to earn. The one that used to make Dave want to deck the smug bastard. "Evidentiary items. Good choice."

A cold chill washed over Dave. _Some part of him recognizes you._ Yet before he had a chance to question the comment, the other man went back to his explanation. It left Dave licking his lips and gazing down at his scribbled shorthand. The words blurred for a just a second.

Gideon suddenly paused and his gaze darted around the cabin. He tilted his head slightly sideways and then raised his eyebrows, his gaze directly on Dave. Dave then realized that the man was expecting questions.

Just like at a real briefing.

So Dave obliged as best he could, keeping his questions somewhat vague yet a little complex. All focused on the birds. At first, Gideon responded with enthusiasm but somewhere around the sixth question—which touched on the geographical profile—the agitation was back.

Gideon suddenly said, "It's incomplete." The frustration was clear in his voice. "It's all incomplete!"

Dave edged closer to the small table, darting his gaze between Gideon and the children. There was a manila folder, a legal pad and pencil in front of each child except the girl with the streamers in her hair. She had a laptop which was open but not on. A television remote was by the left hand of the girl with the butterfly barrettes. All six had mugs in front of them; the dark haired boy apparently drinking tea.

_Oh God. Oh God. No._

"Next steps," Gideon muttered. "Next steps. How do we get to the next step?"

_Work the playbook._

"You need more information," Dave said softly.

"Yes. Yes."

"And you get that information by going back out in the field." Dave found himself holding his breath, praying that Gideon would latch upon that thread.

"No." Gideon stopped and stormed up to Dave. "The team needs to stay here and work."

Dave didn't flinch. "Okay."

He snatched the notebook out of Dave's hands and flipped through a few pages but clearly, he wasn't reading. Suddenly, he shouted, "Not enough blue!" He tossed the notebook to the ground. "You need more blue!" Gideon stomped over to the wall, pacing in front of it as he muttered to himself. "More blue! More blue!"

Slowly, Dave knelt down and retrieved his book. "Okay," he called out. "Then tell me more blue."

***/***

" _So Gideon comes across the body of Sera Tunney. Finds out she's a cancer specialist. It had to be the final thing for him."_

" _But why would he take six children?"_

" _They represent the six victims?"_

" _No. Gideon was very specific in who he chose. Three boys. Three girls. Brunette and blonde. One African-American, the rest Caucasian."_

" _Here are the photos of the children."_

" _Oh my God."_

***/***

Gideon's presentation the second time was much more frantic. Agitated. And when words like "dissociative" and "mutilation" spilled from his lips, he wrung his hands and his head twitched sideways. He ignored the few questions Dave tried asking.

Reality, it seemed, was pushing its ugly way forward.

Dave wasn't sure that it was a good thing.

Christ. Of all the damn things to set the man off, it was Dave's note-taking habits. Oh yeah, _that_ was going to stick with Dave for a while.

Gideon strode over to him and grabbed the notebook, flipping through it manically. "Where's the red? You need red!"

Red pen was for supposition and theory. Dave said slowly, cautiously, "We haven't—"

"How can you be so stupid?" Gideon interrupted with a snarl and ripped two of the pages out, flinging them to the ground.

"You were presenting evidence," Dave called out quietly.

Gideon yanked out the pistol and pointed it at him. "No excuses."

"You said we didn't have enough blue."

That, at least, seemed to stop him momentarily. "Evidence."

"Yes."

"You can't have red without blue."

Well, that was one way of putting it. "Yes."

Gideon approached fast, still pointing the gun, yet Dave continued to stand his ground. "Blue? You need more blue?" Then Gideon began raving about molting and how it wasn't the right season. Yet Dave finally had a good look at the bomb vest Gideon was wearing. Red and black wires curled and looped around; silver tubes strapped down with black tape. Suicide bomb vests weren't that hard to make, after all.

Gideon stomped back over to the kiddie table, waving the pistol and shouting about how one of the birds was in prebasic molt while another was in the prealternate stage. "Just look at the plumage!"

Dave wasn't the bomb expert—that was Morgan's specialty—but something was off.

None of the wires were connected to the tubes. They were just… taped to them.

It wasn't a live bomb. It just looked like one.

Christ.

It didn't matter, really. Because Dave knew the moment that Gideon stepped out of the cabin, even with his hands held up in surrender, a sniper would take Gideon out.

Even if it meant blowing Dave up in the process.

And it **would** be a sniper because David Rossi knew none of the Kids—and they were all kids to him—would take the shot. Hell, he doubted he could do it himself.

David Rossi and Jason Gideon had never been friends. They had been colleagues. They shared countless hotel rooms in the early days of the BAU, long before private jets and sassy media liaisons. They respected each other but couldn't stand to be in the same room with the other unless it had been absolutely necessary.

Dave remembered the day he announced his retirement. They had just finished up a serial rapist case in Amarillo, Texas. It hadn't been an especially difficult case; like the Indianapolis consult Dave had done in 1987, the UnSub had been relatively easy to apprehend. But the similarities in the case brought back how he had failed the Galen kids.

How he failed at Waco, Ruby Ridge and Oklahoma City.

Gideon had been the only one in the department who hadn't begged him to stay. _You always said that you would know when it's time and… it's time, isn't it?_ the man had asked quietly and, to Dave's great surprise, there had even been a bit of admiration in Gideon's tone.

"How do we get more blue?" Gideon's sharp tone shook Dave out of his reverie. "More blue!" The other man paced, pulling at his beard. He stopped suddenly and then shouted, "We go back out in the field!" Gideon then addressed the children, "Not you. No. You all stay here. Go over the evidence we have. _Find_ something!" Gideon walked up to Dave, his eyes shining with excitement and madness. "You and I will head out. Let's go."

Gideon took three steps towards the door.

Dave's eyes suddenly burned. His throat became dry, scratchy. There had been only a few times in his career that he genuinely felt for the UnSub.

But this wasn't just any UnSub.

It was Gideon.

And it could have just as easily been him.

"Jason," he choked out. The name felt odd on his tongue. He couldn't recall a single time when he'd ever addressed the man by his first name. But Gideon didn't respond, just kept walking. Louder, Dave called out, "Aaron Spencer."

Gideon stopped. He turned. He regarded him quizzically. "What?"

"You don't need all that," Dave said, gesturing to the vest and the gun. "Not to go out in the field."

"I'm supposed to look like a federal agent," Gideon retorted as he shrugged his shoulders.

"You want to look like a federal agent but you're wearing _that?_ " Dave forced his tone to be teasing. The plaid flannel shirt was brown and orange, a garish combination that even Reid would steer clear of. Still, it had been a common barb between them. Back in the day, it had been Rossi who had worn the suit while Gideon had been far more casual. _How are we supposed to be credible when you look like a reject from a Salvation Army store?_

His comment earned a laugh though. Gideon slid the gun in the holster as he nodded. "Fair enough."

And by some miracle of God—and whichever one it was, Dave didn't particularly care—Jason Gideon peeled open the Velcro straps of the bomb as if casually taking off his Kevlar. He shrugged off the vest and carefully placed it on the floor near the door.

"That better?" Gideon asked, his face crinkling into an amused smile.

Dave's vision blurred for a brief second. "Thank you."

"What about you? Gonna button up?" The man pointed to Dave's open, gaping shirt. "People aren't gonna take you seriously looking like that." He waited as Dave fastened his shirt closed and tucked it in. He then took a few steps forward, cheerfully slung an arm around Dave's shoulder, and said, "C'mon. I'll show you how it's done."

***/***

" _They're coming out!"_

" _Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"_

***/***

"It's a little late to be starting," Gideon said, sounding light-hearted as they exited the cabin. The sun was bright, the glare making Dave squint and he could see that Gideon had raised his free hand to shade his eyes. The friendly arm around Dave's shoulders was unnerving—Gideon had never been Mister Touchy-Feely around Dave—yet he managed to will himself to relax. "But we should be able to see something."

"You know, some people will want to join us," Dave carefully stated, hoping that Gideon didn't notice how he moved his hand to signal for SWAT, the Team and whoever else was watching not to make any sudden moves, that he had the situation under control, and that they should follow his lead. Thank God Hotch was in charge of the Team; Morgan was a good kid and all, but the only one that Dave trusted unequivocally in a situation like this was Hotch. "They'll help us get more blue."

"They're not qualified," the other man replied dismissively, complete with the characteristic wave of his hand. "They'll be disruptive."

"You never know. Why don't we meet up with them? Look," Dave jutted his chin over to where Hotch was standing behind the SUV and both his hands gripping a pair of binoculars, "that kid over there is all ready to help out. He even has all his gear."

Gideon pulled them to a stop. He cocked his head slightly in Hotch's direction but then jerked his attention to his left. His grip on Dave's shoulder tightened. "They're not qualified."

"Then you can teach them."

"We don't have time."

"We _do_ have time," Dave gently insisted, but he felt Gideon begin to turn back towards the cabin.

"My team—"

"Your team is doing fine. They're the best, remember? And you said you'd show me how it was done. Can't do that from inside, now can we?"

Gideon paused and tilted his head to the side. "You have your pen?"

"In my pocket." Dave forced a smile. He patted his breast pocket but as he dropped his hand to his side, made the _Slow, easy_ gesture. He could feel Gideon's nervous energy ratcheting up. Dave made his signal more exaggerated. _Don't rush him. Please, for the love of God, don't rush him._

"This is wrong," Gideon hissed. His hand dropped from shading his eyes to the hilt of his gun.

Clicks echoed around them. Gideon's grip tightened on Dave. Hotch's repeated command of 'Hold your fire'—he shouldn't have been able to hear it but maybe his brain was filling in the words as Hotch's lips moved—made Dave swallow hard.

"This is wrong," Gideon repeated and moved his other hand from Dave's shoulder. "This is all wrong. My team. My team…" His voice had that panicked edge. "They're after my team."

"No, they're not," Dave growled fiercely, stepping in front of Gideon—blocking at least _some_ of the SWAT shots—and then grabbed Gideon's upper arms. "They're safe. I swear to you that they are safe. You and I need to go out and get more blue. You said it yourself. These people? They're here to help us. You're in charge. We'll follow your lead. You understand that, right? But I need you to do something for me. You need to give me your gun."

Gideon's expression changed to one of embarrassment. He whispered, "I'll look like a teacher's assistant."

 _What the fuck?_ Dave reigned in his temper as he bluntly said, "You don't need a damn gun. You once said that the most powerful weapon we have is a profile."

He blinked and titled his head sideways. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"So you don't need the gun."

"I look like a teacher's assistant without my gun," Gideon repeated and then suddenly smiled, as if it were a joke. He looked around a little before shouting, "Teacher's assistant! Hah!"

"No one will mistake you for a teacher's assistant, believe me," he assured him. Over Gideon's right shoulder, Dave could see two SWAT members moving behind the white van, their goal obviously to block the cabin door to prevent Gideon from getting back inside. He felt Gideon shift, his right arm moving. Was Gideon now gripping the gun?

Dave wondered if he imagined another series of clicks, but Hotch's 'Hold your fire' was audible.

Gideon narrowed his gaze and then looked directly at Dave. There was sharpness in his eyes now dancing with the madness. Softly, "Who is holding their fire?"

"It doesn't matter," Dave replied, wondering why the fuck Hotch was shouting his damn orders. _That's what earpieces are for, damn it_. He kept his attention focused on Gideon. "We need to get more blue, right? That's what we're doing. Getting more blue."

"Blue?" he echoed. "You want more blue."

"You can't have red without blue."

Gideon's expression turned hard. "No. No. I need my team." His body began to twist, but Dave held him firm. Gideon then turned his head to glance behind him. There were two SWAT agents, flanking the cabin door. Gideon's voice went higher. Louder. Desperate. "I need my team! I need my team!"

And then, Jason Gideon lunged.

***/***

" _Shots fired!"_

" _Don't fight me. Stay down. Just stay the fuck down."_

" _Hold your fire!"_

" _Stand down! Stand down!"_

" _I need a medic, now!"_

" _Hold on… hold on…"_

***/***

"Tramadol and Maker's Mark. Interesting combination."

"Don't start with me," Dave growled as he set the bottle down on the table in his hotel room.

He was definitely going to raise all kinds of holy hell at the front desk when he checked out. He'd specifically ordered the staff not to give out his room key to anyone, going so far as to show the badge (not just flash it) and drop five twenty-dollar bills behind the counter. If someone wanted to talk to him so damn badly, they could knock. Not that he would actually open the door…

"I'm not here to argue."

"I don't give a rat's ass what you're here for," Dave snapped, delivering his best glare. He knew the effort was wasted; his guest wasn't that easily intimidated. "I didn't invite you in, so get the fuck out."

"Dave…"

" _Hotch."_ It was cold warning, one he knew that the other agent was going to ignore. He picked up the glass but slammed it back down on the table. "I told those fuckers not to give the goddamn key out to my room. What did you have to threaten them with? Impeding a federal investigation? That's your usual go-to line."

"You gave me the spare when we checked in three days ago," Hotch replied mildly as he sat down on the edge of the double bed closest to the door and furthest away from Dave.

He opened and closed his mouth, annoyed as all hell that he had forgotten. Worse? In situations like this, Hotch always had the upper hand. Bastard. It didn't stop Dave from being a complete ass. "Shouldn't you be with the rest of the kids? Handing out the Kleenex?"

"They weren't the ones who got shot."

"Grazed, damn it. How many times to I have to tell you—"

"Your arm is in sling. That's more than just a grazing shot." There was a long pause and then Hotch added, "I've already filed the complaint."

 _Because those fucking idiots missed?_ was Dave's immediate, uncharitable thought. He spared a glance over to Hotch, surprised at the slack-jaw expression and the paleness to his features.

"Jesus Christ, Dave. You wanted Jason _dead_?" Hotch choked out, shaking his head as he got to his feet.

Dave grabbed the glass of bourbon and chugged it down, horrified that he had said those words aloud. The liquor burned his throat, causing him to cough and his eyes to water. There wasn't enough alcohol to obliterate what he had apparently said aloud. He poured another hefty shot, spat out a list of obscenities for no other reason than to say them, and then snatched a second glass. He filled it and handed it to Hotch.

Hotch took the glass. His tone was stiff, his chin lifted. There were few people who could pull off imperiously indignant like Hotch. "I'm not toasting—"

"Did I fucking propose a goddamn toast?" Dave snarled as he stormed over to the sliding glass door. "No. I didn't."

"Then why…" yet he didn't finish his sentence.

Dave looked over his shoulder. The authoritativeness had left Hotch, leaving sadness and world-weariness in its wake. Hotch took a long drink, grimacing as he did. Dave wandered back over to the table and slumped in the chair. He picked up his glass and drank a few sips.

"He lectured, Aaron," he said hoarsely. "He lectured me on goddamn birds and then asked what color pen I was using to take my notes. He knew I used blue for evidentiary items. He was working the case, God damn it. The son of a bitch has a full psychotic break and he still worked the fucking case."

"My God."

"Over-achieving motherfucker."

Hotch huffed out a laugh before taking another hefty swig of his drink. "The DA will be charging him with—"

"I don't care, Aaron."

"Dave—"

"I'll find him a good lawyer," he interrupted, "and he'll enter the insanity plea. Gideon hopefully won't decide to outwit the psychiatrist doing the evaluations. Gideon's broken, Aaron. It's something that no one can fix. Ever." He gulped down the rest of his drink. "I never liked Jason Gideon personally. Hell, you can attest to that. But I always respected him professionally. He was good at what he did. Too good, really. I don't think he ever got completely out of the UnSubs' heads." He met Hotch's gaze, knowing his own eyes were a bit wet. "So yeah. I'm fucking pissed off those idiots missed. He'll never be remembered for the good that he did, for those he kept in his damn journal. He'll only be remembered for kidnapping, drugging, and holding six children hostage."

Hotch finished the rest of his drink. "They're transferring him tomorrow morning."

"I'm not gonna be there." Dave paused and then stared at Hotch for a moment. "Neither will you. Or any of the team." He filled their glasses again.

Hotch let out a long, hard sign. "We can grieve later." He set his glass down.

"Yeah. I know. We have an UnSub to catch."

***/*** Finis ***/***

" _Some say the most terrifying part about what we do is that we know how these UnSubs commit these crimes. We observe the evolution of their crimes, understand the why, and see what mistakes they made. And that's what makes_ _ **us**_ _—we profilers—the most dangerous of them all."_

SSA Max Ryan

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dabbling around with the idea of writing a "Gideon as an UnSub" fic for quite a while. Of the BAU team that we've been introduced to, past and present, it had always felt that Gideon was the closest one to the edge. After all, he kept a Book of the Saved, which even in my early years of watching the show, kind of creeped me out because it was eerily like a trophy collection. Remember, Mr. Patinkin gave no warning that he was not going to return to do Season Three of the series, so the writers hadn't been building up to writing him out of the show.
> 
> I found two photos of Mr. Patinkin—with and without the beard and glasses. When I saw the beard and glasses, he did remind me of a scruffy old man and the ideas just came from there. We know that Gideon is an avid birder and I had been in Boston when I had read about workampers in USA Today although I cannot find the article anymore. Still, combining the two made sense, and adding in that Gideon may not have been all that stable to begin with… Viola! Story


End file.
